


It Shouldn't Remind Me of You

by BlueSpectre



Category: Fallout 3
Genre: Bullying, Death, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mercy Killing, Swearing, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 01:37:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5808271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSpectre/pseuds/BlueSpectre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life gets lonely out in the Wasteland, especially when you know you don't belong there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He wasn't a fan of the quiet. Not the kind of quiet that surrounded him, anyway. It was sinister and evil and the air around him had a bitter and horrible feel to it. Never mind the ruthless murderers that were stalking along the homemade catwalks spread between the shelves. Who were packing guns and weapons that far surpassed the man's little 10 mm. No, it was the atmosphere that unsettled Damian the most.

The boy has only been out in this 'wasteland' for about two weeks, and within those two weeks he had been shot, stabbed, mugged, and almost murdered. He was, however, holding up better than he and everyone else thought he would.

He's only cried once.

Dogmeat barked behind him, the vaultie hushing him frantically. This wasn't Damian's first time in this little shop of horrors. In fact, he was just here a week ago, sent on an errand by Moira to gather food for one of the chapters of the _Wasteland Survival Guide._ He found the food without an issue, but the extra task of finding medicine had been thwarted by the bandits and his zero chance of going against them with his tiny police baton and empty 10 mil. He _could_ have tried, but he didn't really have a death wish. 

No, instead he left with his tail between his legs. Moira was disappointed, but she got over it rather quickly. Too quickly, for Damian's taste. She was jumpy, easily excitable, and a little cooky. She sometimes spoke with a stutter if she got too passionate and excited about something and was very grabby when she was like this as well. But, she had a passion and fire that Damian has yet to see out of anyone else in the wastes.

She was definitely the most interesting person he's met out here so far, that's for sure.

Damian finally gathered enough courage to get behind cover and start shooting. He shot one of the raiders in the leg, causing her to stumble off the shelves, breaking her neck on another as she fell. Damian hoped he'd be that lucky with everyone, but it was very unlikely, so he stuck to cover as bullets flew over his head. He pegged whatever raider he could see when he stood up as soon as they all paused to reload, eventually getting most of them down and leaving him with two left.

One raider, however, made him scream in fear when they popped over the counter he was using for cover and started swinging a broken pool cue in his direction. Dogmeat latched onto their arm and tore into the flesh with his sharp teeth. The raider screamed and howled in pain and dropped their weapon. Damian was too afraid to pull the trigger once the junkie was on the ground because he didn't want to accidentally hit his new friend. So he settled for grabbing the cue and beating the raider's head in until they stopped moving.

Once they were dead, Dogmeat had a taste for blood and wanted more. He snarled and snapped while Damian held him back by the harness – which was gifted to him once Moira met Damian's new furry friend – around his ribs. The last raider had a gun and the boy wasn't about to risk Dogmeat getting shot. His goal was to hold the dog back and take the last guy out with his gun before he let go. 

Easier said than done.

“Would you quit it?” he hissed at the animal after a strong lurch. “Heel boy!”

Dogmeat did the exact opposite, however, and only became more aggressive. Damian was not a strong man physically and couldn't keep hold on any longer without running the risk of dislocating his shoulder. He let go  and the animal bolted. 

“Crap!” He stood up and unloaded his clip straight in front of him until he heard it click. Empty.

When the raider noticed the beast rushing towards him, it was already too late. Dogmeat's jaws were already clamped his jaws down on their neck and whipped his head around. Their attempts at crying out only came out as choked gurgles as they drowned in their own blood, fangs penetrating their throat  and crushing their windpipe.

Eventually their legs stopped kicking and their chest stopped heaving, letting a out a last and pathetic rasp before going still.

Damian propelled himself over the counter and stuffed his gun into its holster, walking over to his panting dog. There was blood now soaked into the fur around his muzzle and Damian could  _swear_ that the dog was grinning. 

“We really need to work on your listening skills.” groaned the boy, Dogmeat only barking once in response.

He checked every body for anything useful, taking any ammo he could find for his pistol and loading it while the rest went into his bag. Obviously, there wasn't anything on the store shelves aside from bent tin cans and empty glass bottles. He  _did_ find an unopened can of dog food  that was still in relatively good condition. Damian looked at Dogmeat and the animal barked excitedly, the boy smiling as he put the can into his bag. 

After several minutes of fruitless searching, Damian was ready to throw in the towel and walk out of this place. 

But the sound of Dogmeat frantically barking somewhere in the back of the store caused Damian to snap his head towards where the sound came from, eventually following it. The dog was scratching at a locked metal door, looking and yipping at his master, spinning around in a circle to proclaim “Look what I found!” 

“What'd ya find, boy?” said Damian as he knelt down to become eye-level with the lock. He stuck a bobby pin and the tip of his screwdriver into the key hole, making a face of concentration as he listened carefully for the moving tumblers inside the door. 

The boy was a natural at this. He's been picking locks since he could keep his hands steady. Several nights would involve him breaking of his and his father's room, sneaking  around the vault when he wasn't supposed to and causing all sorts of trouble for the guards on night shift. Every once in a while he'd find Butch in the dinning room enjoying a midnight snack or smoke. It was the only time they got along, really. Damian may have been in the Tunnel Snakes, but there was no love los t between the two. 

But it was these nights  where  they were tired but couldn't sleep, sharing a snack or smoke in silence that Damian remembers the two of them never butting heads. Hard to, when neither of you said a word to each other, or barely exchanged a glance. 

It was all an act, Damian knew. Butch played the hardass because he wanted attention. Something that his mother never gave him, so he sought it somewhere else. His mother was always too preoccupied with finding the bottom of every bottle she got her hands on rather than taking care of her child. 

And when she  _did_ noticed that he was in the same room as her, it wasn't the kind of attention that Butch wanted. Most everyone knew about the beatings and some even heard them. Damian was one of those unlucky few, heart wrenching at the screaming and pleading as he lay in his bed, staring at the metal ceiling. 

For a while, Damian was too young to understand what was going on whenever he heard it down the hall. But one night, when his father was sleep deprived and irritable, he was talking to Jonas through intercom in the other room and working on papers Damian was still too young to read and comprehend and Miss DeLoria was screaming again. He remembered his father rolling his eyes and  groaning “How can anyone sleep when DeLoria beats her brat every goddamn night?”  as he rubbed his temples.

Damian was twelve, then. And after that night the names Butch called him and the punches he threw and the flicks and trippings didn't hurt as much. Because he knew that whatever Butch did to him, he had it so much worse every night. Damian started noticing the bruises on Butch's face and arms, the way he flinched sometimes when someone reached for something above or near him. The boy became an expert in coming up with excuses for each and every one of those little ticks. 

The bruises an d cuts, fights with the other kids. The red, puffy eyes were from lack of sleep because he was too busy 'Gettin' it' with the ladies of the vault, and the flinching was because he was zoned out and didn't seem them there. 

But Damian knew the truth behind it all. Along with the others. His father told him that it wasn't any of their business, that the Overseer would take care of the situation if he deemed it necessary, and for a while, Damian had believed him. So he kept his mouth shut and said nothing, did nothing, and continued on with life as if nothing was wrong even when he heard the abuse going on just down the hall the previous night. 

Just like everyone else. 

The lock clicked and the door cracked open. The boy smirked and pushed it open, petting Dogmeat's head as he stepped inside. 

Stocked shelves. Full of food and water and components ripe for the picking so he could pawn them off later to the highest bidder. He looked through boxes, containers, and drawers alike and stuffed as much as he could into his bag. Dogmeat sniffed around and brought things back that he believed would be of interest to his master. Another can of dog food, Pork n' Beans, and something metal and shiny that Damian wasn't quite sure what was. 

In the back, Nuka-Cola. A ton of full bottles that hadn't been opened yet. He grabbed one and twisted the top off, chugging the liquid down like he hadn't had a drink in days. It was flat, warm, and his Geiger counter ticked at the radiation. 

But damn, was it still good. 

The cap went into his coin purse, the empty bottle thrown behind him, and the rest of the sodas were stuffed into his bag along with everything else. It was the blue glow that caught his attention, however, and he shifted through the rest of the empty bottles to get to the source on the bottom. More Cola. But this one was different. Blue and luminescent from something – probably radiation – inside. His mouth watered at the promise of a new, exciting flavor dancing over his palette and he licked his dry lips in anticipation. 

It would have to wait, though. He needed to be smart about this and find out what was in  the soda to ca u se  it to glow in the first place. So, as tempting as it may have been to drink it immediately, Damian ignored his want and into the bag it went. 

The vaultie found everything he needed – including the medicine, which was tucked securely into the first-aid kit on Dogmeat's harness – and was ready to leave this grocery store of nightmares for good. He had had enough of seeing rotting, decapitated bodies of unfortunate victims pinned to the walls and stepping on a blood stain every few  paces.

Another thing had caught his attention earlier, but the food and medicine had trumped that interest. Now he stood in front of a – tube? Cylinder? - containment case that housed a protectron  inside . Damian had seen a few of them since he's been outside of the vault, and Deputy Weld has been the only one that hasn't tried to kill him yet. 

“Best not to mess with it, eh?” he smiled at Dogmeat, the animal tilting his head in response. Damian shrugged and adjusted the bag strap that sat over his shoulder as he turned to leave the room. 

_“Hey, we're back. Someone open the door.”_

Damian stopped. 

_“Hello?”_ They paused. “ _Something's not right here._ ” 

They kicked the door open with a loud  _“Bang!”_ that echoed throughout the store and Damian ducked down behind the counters outside of the room he was in. It must have been the hunters returning for the night, had to be. He checked his Pip-Boy for the time and read  _“19:32”_ . Seven thirty. He had been here much longer than he intended to be. 

Damian needed to get out of here and continue onto his next destination, but the problem stood that he had no idea how many raiders had just busted their way in, and if even more of them were expected to show up still. Not to mention, there wasn't many bullets left for his gun so a fire fight with an unknown number of hostiles wasn't exactly ideal. 

The boy carefully peaked over the counter he was hiding behind and scanned their area in front of him. He saw only two, one on the catwalks and another stalking between the shelves on the ground. The latter of the two was not made happy when he came across the bodies of his comrades that lay dead around him, and threatened to tear the throat out of whoever was responsible with his bare teeth. Damian swallowed hard. 

He ducked back down and attempted to sneak away. He was a quiet kid, had to be when you prowled around the vault after curfew. They only caught him a few times, and each time they did he was told the same thing; 

_“Don't let us catch you again!”_

Damian had decided that the fourth time was the  _last_ time. And it was. 

He was only inspired to do better each time, to be honest, and that's exactly what he did. He got so good at it that he could hide in plain sight, just had to be in the shadows that no one dared check for fear of Radroaches. 

Now his life quite literally depended on it  and he was confident in his skills. No one would see him if he didn't want to be seen. He  _was_ the shadows, the silence, the night and the wind. He was quiet as a mouse and they wouldn't find him because he didn't  _want_ to be found. They wouldn't-- 

He kicked a can. 

_“There you are, you fucker!”_

Son of a bitch. 

The man was on him with a knife, having every intention to make good on the promise that he spat a few minutes ago. He cut and slashed and Damian could only scramble away, stuck with his ass on the floor. He couldn't reach for his gun, the raider wouldn't allow him the time or opportunity. Dogmeat rushed into the hallway, teeth bared in a snarl and he  bit the raider's  hand . They screeched as fangs penetrated and ripped into their skin.

Damian took this moment of distraction to grab his 10 mil. from his belt and aim it steadily at the raider's head. The trigger was pulled and they fell to the ground with a hole in the middle of their forehead, blood trickling out of the wound and onto the floor. Damian breathed for a moment before being thrown back into the fray . 

A woman ran in, screaming and waving a gun around. She was jacked up on something and obviously couldn't see straight. The bullets she fired went everywhere, going into the wall, the ceiling, ground. They were hitting nowhere near where Damian was now standing and she herself could barely stay on her feet. 

Three shots and she was down. 

Damian searched their bodies for anything useful, grunted irritably as he fell short, and moved on. He was  _so_ ready to leave and never come back. 

The doors to exit where right there and he breathed a sigh of relief as he walked towards them.

But of course, nothing in the wasteland was that easy and another raider had a  different idea for him. They were unbelievabl y small and scrawny and jumped onto Damian's back, wrapping their bicep tight around his neck.  Both were yelling as the vaultie tried to pry the raider off of him as they attempted to strangle him. Dogmeat barked and snarled but didn't move from where he stood. 

Damian clawed at the bandit's arm, his breath shallowing as his windpipe was being crushed. For such a small being, the raider was surprisingly strong and the boy was having a hard time admitting  to himself that he was struggling with them.  He started to feel light in his head from the lack of oxygen and the raider had no intention of letting up. 

His vision went hazy when they constricted their bicep tighter around him. Dogmeat  was  still freaking out but  still d id nothing to stop what was happening. Damian's hand frantically pawed around the shelves behind him for  _ something _ to hit the little demon on his back with, but luck wasn't rooting for him, evidently. He found nothing. 

He needed to think of something now. His knees were becoming weak and his body was going numb. 

Damian backed up hard against the shelves and the raider yelped loud in pain as a response. Their grip loosed slightly and Damian greedily took in a much needed breath. It was small, but it meant the world to him and his lungs as it give him extra time to fight back, however little. 

He did it again, harder, over and over and each time the raider's grip let up enough for him to take a raspy breath.  The raider was still hanging on, and Damian had to admit that they definitely had some fire and determination in them, but because that fire and determination was trying to kill him, he needed to put a stop to it. 

Now his hair was being pulled and his legs jerked him away from the shelves by pure reaction. The raider was trying to get him away from the shelves so he couldn't slam into them anymore, and for a moment it had worked. 

But in Damian's favor. 

Damian ran backwards into the shelf full force and hit it with all the strength he could possibly muster up. 

There was a sickening  _ “snap”  _ and the raider was now nothing more than dead weight. 

Damian gasped and wheezed, coughing hard as he hands gently wrapped around his throat, the skin stinging at the sensation. He allowed his body to buckle and collapse and bring him to his knees,  his hands now pushing against the tile to keep him from falling over. Breathing never felt so good and Dogmeat padded over and licked his face. 

“Thanks... for the help.” he rasped, his voice sarcastic even though it was weak. Dogmeat just kept licking him. 

But a small noise sounded behind him and he turned his head over his shoulder to look; 

The small raider was still breathing. They were still alive. 

Paralyzed, they couldn't move or feel at all and Damian rose shakily to his feet. They were wheezing, panicking and the vaultie frowned as he felt a small ping of guilt. 

Why? Why  _ should _ he feel guilty? They were trying to kill him!

But... Still. They didn't deserve this, they didn't deserve to suffer and lay here motionless and doomed to starve to death or become something's – or someone's – live meal. 

Damian took the 10 mm from his belt, his last clip in the chamber and its last bullet, and pointed it at the raider's head. They looked at him pleadingly. 

He pulled the trigger. 

* * *

 

“What?” asked Damian, shocked. “That can't be right.” 

“Ye heard me, kid.” responded a merchant with an unpleasantly raspy voice, a cigar in his mouth. “Ye gonna take it or not?” 

“Seriously, this stuff  _ has _ to be worth more than that!” 

The merchant blew smoke in Damian's face.

“It ain't. Take it or piss off.” 

Damian waved the smoke from the cigar away from him and scoffed, throwing his hands in the air in defeat. “Perfect,” he laughed. “I'm almost murdered by raiders and then jumped by radscorpions on my way here, and now I'm being swindled.” 

The merchant slammed his cigar into the ashtray in front of him, the banging sound causing Damian to jump. 

“I ain't 'swindling' ye, ye little fuckin' brat.” Two large men suddenly stood on either side of Damian and he could feel his heart beat a little faster. “But if yer going to make it a big deal, then my boys'll  have 'ta escort you away from  here .” 

One of the brutes cracked his knuckles and Damian backed away slightly, growing increasingly nervous. 

“ Wouldn't wanna cause a scene, would we now?” 

Damian gulped in spite of himself. 

“T-two hundred caps is fine!” he called out quickly with a nervous laugh, waving his hand to dismiss himself. “I don't know what I was thinking, more then two hundred. Pfft! Dust must be getting to my head, you know?” 

The brutes eyed him as he passed them and grabbed the caps offered to him on the counter. The merchant had a know-it-all smirk on his face and Damian just wanted to punch it off. But, if he did, he'd be in a world of hurt and that wasn't on today's agenda.

As he turned to leave, the merchant taunted him with a “Run along now, little boy!” and bellowed an obnoxious laugh afterward. 

Damian's fist balled at his side. 

It was the rumbling of his stomach that distracted him from his anger, and he made a course for the food bar a few steps out of the way.

When he sat down – on the edge seat to the left – Dogmeat lay next to him, panting. He ordered a bottle of scotch and a bowl of noodles for himself, and water and steak for his dog. The lady behind the counter was kind enough to cut the meat into small chunks after it was prepared before serving it to the animal. She pet Dogmeat's head as she stood up right and worked on Damian's noodles. The boy listened to the dog greedily lap up the bowl of water in front of him as his owner waited for his own food. 

The woman gave him the scotch he ordered while he waited and  he  immediately took a swig, swishing it around in his mouth before swallowing. He twisted his face slightly but drank it again anyway. He still wasn't fully used to taking a large gulp, his father only allowed him small sips from his own glass every once in a while. Damian eventually grew partial to the taste, but never drank enough to actually feel the alcohol's burn.

But he had a feeling he'd get used to it relatively soon.

A man sat next to Damian as he ate the noodles given to him but didn't say anything. The noodles themselves were chicken flavored. Or, uh, supposed to be, anyway. They were rather watered down and dull, but it was food and his Geiger counter wasn't ticking off so he wouldn't complain. It was better than nothing. 

“Nice jacket.” said the man. 

“Thanks.” 

“You get a free bowl 'a soup with that thing?” Damian didn't have to look at them to know that they were smirking at him. 

Great. Just what he needed, an asshole. 

He decided to ignore the man, which they took as an invitation to be more annoying. 

“'Tunnel Snakes'? The hell is that supposed to be? Same gang banging group in the sewers somewhere?” 

Damian's jaw clenched.

“Got nothing, huh?” they scoffed, leaning back slightly in his seat as he lit a cigarette, deciding to blow the smoke in Damian's face after they took a drag. Twice, twice that's happened today and if it happens again he might just floor someone. 

“ Thing's beat to shit, too.” The man touched Damian's sleeve and he smacked their hand away. 

“Don't touch me.” he said lowly. A warning, but his harasser took it as a challenge. 

“Or what? You're just a little pip-squeak, can't do shit.” They grabbed his sleeve again and looked at the device on his wrist. “Nice Pip-Boy, too. What can it do?” 

Damian ripped his arm away and the man laughed. 

“So feisty,” There was an edge to their voice that Damian didn't like, and he suddenly felt very uncomfortable. “I like it when they're feisty.” he purred and Damian felt an unpleasant chill shiver along his spine. He tried standing up to leave but the man pulled him back down. 

“Whatsa matter, can't handle a little teasing?” 

This guy  _ really _ wanted to eat his own teeth. 

“Can't run to mommy or daddy? You lost little boy, or did they just drop you on your ass out the door?” 

He was really goddamn hungry for those teeth.

Still, Damian kept his gaze down to his food that was almost gone, trying to ignore the hand gripped around the screen of his Pip-Boy. The man asked another question that Damian ignored, taking another chug of his scotch as he pulled his arm away  _ again _ . He was starting to accept the burn, but the man next to him wasn't accepting his silence. 

“Answer me when I ask a question!” He hissed and grabbed Damian's jaw, trying to pull his face to look at them. Something inside his head snapped. “What does that little Pip-Boy of yours' do--” 

The cracking sound the man's face made once it made hard contact with the device on Damian's wrist was  _ so  _ satisfying, and so was watching him spin out of his seat and land face-first into the dirt.  Best feeling he's had all day. 

“Oh you little  _ fucking _ cum stain!” they shouted as their hand cradled their now broken nose, which was gushing blood. 

“Hey, you wanted to know what it could do, so I showed you one of the things it could do.” Damian responded casually, putting the last of the noodles into his mouth. Although he hadn't counted on the man being able to stand up so quickly and he jumped out of his chair and out of the way of an incoming fist thrown at him. 

He was fully prepared to take the next hit, but before the fist could come down, Dogmeat had the man on the ground again from a tackle. He was biting and tearing into the arm that was coming for his master's head. 

The man screamed and swore, his attempts to free himself thwarted by the dog's size and strength. 

“You done now?” asked Damian, standing over his would-be attacker. They shouted something that sounded like a plead of mercy and Damian took it as a yes. He called Dogmeat off and the man ran off in the opposite direction, hand gripping his mutilated arm and the vaultie could see the blood seeping through his fingers. 

Damian walked over to where he was pinned and picked up a pack of cigarettes that fell out of their pocket when they went down. 

Marlboro. His favorite brand.

He took a cigarette from the pack and lit it, taking a deep drag from it. 

“Tunnel Snakes rule, bitch."  


	2. Chapter 2

“Whoa, whoa, what the _fuck?!_ ” 

All day Damian had been feeling rather sluggish for reasons unknown to him. He felt like he was sleepy and sore and tired, and even though it's true he hasn't slept well the past few days, it wasn't an excuse for his lack of motivation. All of the running around that he does usually woke him up, anyway, so he's never had to worry about it.

Today had been different, however. It was humid and cloudy and grey outside, and the air just felt...  _heavy_ . Like it was weighing him down and was taking a tol l  on his body. He was crabby, too. Snapping at any slight annoyance to unfortunately cross his path and even taking it out on someone who just said “Good morning” earlier. He eventually felt bad but he had already walked too far to turn around and apologize. 

Nothing he did pulled him out of the mood and funk that he was in and these feelings just wouldn't go away.

But after seeing Azrukhal's head splatter like someone had stepped on a grape, he woke up enough to stumble back and cry out in shock.  Damian had bought the contract of the barkeep's body guard, Charon, and the ghoul immediately pushed passed his new 'employer' to his old one and blew his head off with a shotgun point blank to the face. 

Azrukhal sold the contract of the larger ghoul – pawning Damian out of 2,000 caps and wouldn't accept anything less – and the vaultie only agreed because he had caught a passing rumor that Charon was Azrukhal's slave, and the good part of Damian wanted to put a stop to that. The other option, rather than caps, was to kill an innocent ghoul woman for the pure fact that she was competition in the booze department. 

Damian obviously refused the latter, so he settled – begrudgingly – on forking over the caps. He hadn't counted on Charon looking completely cold and emotionless as Damian told him the 'good' news. Nor had he expected him to walk over to his now-previous boss and shoot him. 

Point blank. Right in the mouth. 

“What the heck was that?” he asked, still reeling from what he just saw. 

“I shot his head off,” answered Charon simply, placing his shotgun onto its rightful place on his back. 

“Obviously,” Damian replied sharply. “But  _why_ ?” 

“Azrukhal was an evil bastard. As long as his dirty hands held my contract, I was honor bound to do everything he said. I could do nothing  against him .” Charon stood still and perfectly straight, like posture was something that someone had beaten into his head, telling him that it was the most important thing to do. More important than breathing and looking someone in the eye when you spoke to them.

Or sho o t ing them in the head. 

“However, now that I am no longer in his service, someone could give that  _rat_ what he deserved.” 

Damian was still trying to wrap his head around what the hell just happened, his face stuck on an expression of uncomfortableness as his gaze wouldn't leave the scene of the barkeep's eyeball rolling near his shoe and the splatter of blood painted on the wall behind where he had been standing. 

Some of the ghouls in the bar – that weren't too drunk and passed out in the corner – came over to investigate what happened. Charon stood unmoving, even after someone had bumped into him when they weren't paying attention to where they were going. He just threw them a glare and they scurried away in fear. Most of the ghouls that came over where too spaced out on alcohol or chems to realize that what they were seeing was actually real. 

Charon stood perfectly still, scanning the room as if waiting for something, watching. It creeped Damian the hell out, but he wasn't about to ask what he was doing. If his behavior and actions towards Azrukhal was any indication, it wasn't wise to rile the ghoul up and give him an excuse to blow  _Damian's_ head off as well. 

The boy swallowed hard at the very thought. 

He noticed that, eventually, all of the ghouls who had wondered over to the barkeep's body lost interest and went back to their drinking. One even went as far as to flick away a chunk of Azrukhal's brain while they sat at the bar. 

Damian held back the bile that formed at the back of his throat, twisting his face in disgust as he forced it back down with a swallow. 

Suddenly, Charon tugged on Damian's sleeve.

“We must go now.” 

“What?” Damian snapped back into reality. “ Y ou mean just out of the bar or-- Hey!” The ghoul was pushing him now, first out of the door and then down the halls. 

“I still have to--” 

“No, you do not. We need to leave.” 

“Ow! Dammit, not so rough!” 

* * *

Damian wasn't sure what that whole scene was about. Charon wouldn't – or rather, refused – to tell him no matter how many times he asked. He knew that he was annoying his new found companion, but Damian was also annoyed that he wasn't able to trade off some of the junk he had picked up during his travels. 

He wanted to get that 2,000 back  _somehow_ .

His last attempt at asking had been interpreted by a Super Mutant charging after them with a large metal pipe in its hand. The pipe itself looked like it had once been part of a street light, cut down to a more usable size to fit the mutie's hand and strength. While the mutie was big, bigger than the ones that Damian's seen already. Its height was taller than the others and its gross muscular structure was more buff than the mutants the vaultie had killed to get here. 

And they were charging towards Damian and Charon, shrieking a battle cry and something about the game being over. 

It wasn't over until Damian said it was. 

The boy was able to move out of the way of the oncoming swing just in time before unloading the contents of his assault rifle's clip into the mutant's back. It hissed and snarled about the pain, but did nothing to slow or bring it down. Damian swore as he rolled out of the way again,  gaining no chance to reload his weapon as the mutant had his sights focused on him.  Charon had pulled his shotgun back into play and fired over Damian's head  after pushing him down onto his rear . The vaultie would be lying if he said this didn't make him a little nervous, he  _did_ just use that to obliterate someone's face. 

Ugh, Damian was going to see that image non-stop in his dreams tonight. 

Dogmeat was staying be hind the two of them – as instructed to by Damian, as the dog was still recovering from a blow he took to the hip by a mutant's powerful kick  the other day – and barked and snarled viciously, circling around the combat to try and intimidate the beast attacking his master. The mutant roared at the barking dog, the ground vibrating from the noise and Damian being forced to cover his ears. But Dogmeat didn't flinch, just continued his howling as he limped out of the way of the pipe being swung towards him. 

“Hey!” Charon called from behind the brute, the barrel of his shotgun pointed directly  between the mutant's eyes.

Mutants weren't very smart, whatever had mutated them to become this disgustingly muscular towers of beef did nothing to enhance the capability of their minds – there was a metaphor in there somewhere, but Damian couldn't remember it off the top of his head – The beast stood and looked at Charon for a second or two before its pea-brain realized what it was looking at. 

And by the time it did, the trigger was already pulled. 

Half of the mutie's face was gone and it fell at Charon's feet, the ghoul casually stepping back to avoid having it fall  _on_ him. 

Now that Damian – who was still on the ground from Charon pushing him to shoot over his head – could get a clear look at the shotgun, his curiosity about his new companion only doubled. The weapon was clearly modified, a few zipties wrapped around two barrels – whereas a normal combat shotie only had one – with the strips cut off just before the lock to prevent obscuring the view when he looked down the sight. The clip was smaller but wider, and rather than a circle shape, it was an oval.  H oused more bullets that way. 

And rather than its usual walnut handle, this gun had a birch, the ridges in the grip were so worn out from use that you couldn't even see the grooves anymore. Its power was immense, too, and Charon didn't even flinch from the kickback whenever he pulled that trigger. If Damian had tried to fire it, he'd either fall over or lose an arm or both. 

Damian wondered if the gun was a product of the ghoul ' s own mind and hands putting it together, or if someone had made it for him. He leaned more towards the latter of his thought, not because he didn't think Charon wasn't a capable enough guy to make a gun like this, but because he didn't seem very patient. And making a gun like  _that_ would require a hell of a lot of patience, trial and error testing, and finalization. 

But before the vaultie could ask about it; 

“This place is not safe,” said the grainy voice of the large ghoul, his hand – which was twice the size of Damian's, by the way – extended to help the boy off his ass. “Where is our destination?” 

“The giant shlong lookin' building over there,” Damian explained as he dusted off the back of his pants and jacket. When he looked up at Charon's face, the grin that he had on his lips faded away as soon as he saw the  ghoul's farrowed brow. 

“Ya know, the Washington Monument.” Damian pointed behind Charon, but he didn't look. Just kept his eyes on the kid's face. “It kinda looks like--” 

“A penis. Yes. Very amusing.” Charon turned on his heel and slung the shotgun over his shoulder as he walked. 

Damian made a face before sighing and moving to catch up. “Sheesh,”

 

The building looked like it was going to fall apart any minute. Even from this far away, Damian could see the damage done to it over the past two hundred years. It was missing giant chunks of the – stone? – and revealed the rebar structuring that held it together underneath, some of the holes hastily boarded over with wood as if someone tried to patch it up but gave up before they even got halfway.

And honestly, the thing just looked like it was going to collapse in on itself any second. And Damian was expected to go the the top of that thing.

He couldn't even blame himself for being nervous about it.

Charon didn't even bother to ask why they were going up there in the first place. Damian just said that's where they were headed and off he went, blindly into the fray without any information as to what they were going to do. Ignoring the dangers that surrounded them until it was right in their face and having enough balls to get up right in _theirs_ ' and shoot it. 

The man was confident, Damian had to admit. But he had to wonder if it was just confidence, or just pure intuition that drove the ghoul forward without thinking of the possible consequences that could surface from going into something head on. The man was a veteran, and Damian had no doubt that he had this entire wasteland mapped, memorized, and burned into the back of his skull. That he knew every nook, cranny, and corner that Damian never would have seen without someone pointing it out to him. 

But did that excuse whatever possible recklessness? To him, it didn't. He was always on his toes, his guard always up, always waiting for something to jump up behind him. A month he had been out here so far and he was so jumpy and paranoid having this much openness to his back that getting another companion – that wasn't a dog – seemed like the most logical idea. But what use was it if the companion he picked wasn't as careful or  watchful as he was? 

Maybe that was Damian's problem. Maybe he was  _too_ careful. 

He would learn quickly that this was  _exactly_ why he needed Charon. 

* * *

They only had to take down one mutant before making to the base of the monument. There were two Brotherhood of Steel soldiers  posted by the gate  and Damian wondered if they were part of the Lyons' Pride. One had a laser rifle and the other had something  _much_ bigger that Damian couldn't take his eyes off of. 

It looked like a minigun, only its hull was more rectangular than any minigun he had seen so far out here. It was painted black and glowing red in some places, and the backpack had a slight hum to it.

“Are you the kid Three Dog radio'd us about?” asked the soldier with the large gun. Damian confirmed and the soldier nodded the three of them through. But the vaultie didn't move his feet and his eyes were still glued on the gun. 

“Something wrong, kid?” 

“Huh?” Damian shook his head to snap himself back into reality. “Oh. No, everything's fine. It's just that...” 

“Never seen a Gatling laser before?” 

Gatling Laser. Holy crap. 

Charon pulled on Damian's sleeve again and began pulling him towards the monument's doors. There was something about that particular weapon that had Damian's head absolutely swimming with several possibilities. Imagine the power, the  f ear he could strike into the hearts of Super Mutants, brutes and masters and behemoths alike. 

They were on an elevator now, going up into the damaged and broken deathtrap that was the Washington Monument, and for the duration of the rickety ride Damian fantasized about holding that gun in his arms. Firing it, ripping into the flesh of mutants and Raiders and anything else that meant to do him harm. He questioned to himself if the bullets that thing fired would indeed tear, or if they would burn. Or maybe both?

Oh what he would do to wrap his hands around one of those babies. No one would ever fuck with him again.  _That_ was a gun for a Tunnel Snake. 

Tunnel Snakes. Sometimes he forgot that he was the only one  _out_ of the tunnel. The others were enjoying an easy, cozy life inside the vault and didn't have to worry about things like Super Mutants or Raiders or radiation. Or wondering if you were going to be able to eat that day or if you could find a safe place to sleep for the night. Or being afraid that you were going to be kidnapped and dragged off by Raiders to be their slave in the ass-end of nowhere, nobody coming to your rescue because they either didn't  _care_ or  _couldn't_ .

They didn't have to be afraid of anything hurting them. They didn't need gun s for anything other than Radroaches. So they had no need for  something like a Gatling laser. 

But Damian did, and that was the difference between him and  _them_ now. They were safe and he wasn't. It had been almost two months now since he was forced to leave everything behind. Everyone had seemed so panicked and excited to be rid of him just so the situation could go back to normal. So the alarms would stop the guards would stop shooting  and the Radroaches would stop attacking. 

Did they even remember him? Notice that he was gone?

Damian felt like his heart had dropped to his feet, looking at the floor as he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket. His Tunnel Snakes jacket, the group that's no doubt forgotten their exiled member by now. 

The Gatling laser suddenly wasn't as cool to him anymore. 

 

Charon was the first one out of the elevator once it stopped and Damian was the last. His heart still felt heavy from his revelation but he needed to put that aside for now as something far more important required his attention. 

The ghoul frowned at a dented dish just outside  a large opening , damaged by a bullet. Damian sauntered over with the new dish – that had been strapped to his back. Taken from the museum of technology, from what Charon was told – in his hand s . Charon made a comment that the boy's going to need help getting that disk down and replaced. It was han g ing out a little from the  opening  and if Damian were to try and get out there without someone holding him, he'd fall right out. 

With dish under arm and a screwdriver in his mouth, Damian hoisted himself onto the ridge of the opening and held onto the stone, Charon firmly gripping his waist with his large hands to keep him from plummeting to his death. Damian had to admit something to himself as he pried the bolts out of the damaged dish, it was a bit awkward having a pair of hands on him belonging to someone he just met an hour ago, but he knew that without those hands he would fall. 

There was something about Charon, though, that had Damian in a complete stump. It made him both curious and anxious and a part of him wanted to know more about his new friend, while the other, larger part kept holding up red flags. He buys a 'contract' and suddenly a man who wouldn't even give him the light of day when he first tried to talk to him was suddenly unquestionably loyal and protective. 

But as soon as his previous contract holder was relieved, Charon did not hesitate to blow his goddamn head off. What would stop him from doing the same to Damian if someone were to snag the contract out from under him?

The boy gulped again. 

Each of the bolts had come off easily – like this wasn't the first time someone's climbed up here to replace the damn thing – and Damian handed them to Charon, who carefully put them in a pocket on his chest. The dish fell as soon as the last bolt was removed and Damian watched it go down, feeling slightly dizzy once he did. He wasn't so sure that he wanted to know just how  _high_ they were right now. 

But considering how he didn't even hear the object hit the concrete below, it was a safe bet that they were pretty fuckin' high. 

Now came the difficult part. Damian put the screwdriver back into his mouth and wrestled the dish from under his arm. He pressed his palm flat against the centre of it and took the bolt handed to him by Charon. It took quite a bit of bashing with the butt of his screwdriver to drive them in, bits of rust flaking off and slowly floating down below him,  but it went in just fine and stayed there.

Something had shifted within the tower and Damian lost his balance, circling his arms back in a flail to try and steady himself. He swore loudly as he felt himself fall back. 

Charon's strong hand had let go of his waist and grabbed the chest of Damian's jacket, the other hand pressed against the small of his back for added support. The ghoul didn't even grunt as he pulled the boy back into a safe angle. Damian then suddenly felt a small wave of panic wash over him and snapped his head to where the dish would be sitting, fully expecting it to be gone. 

He breathe d a loud sigh of relief when he saw that it wasn't. 

“Thanks, Charon.” Damian said as he grabbed another bolt. The man said nothing in response. 

The both of them were rather careful while bringing Damian back down to his feet, and he had to admit that if felt good to have them back on solid ground and  _not_ be dangling out of the Hole of Death. 

He turned on Galaxy News Radio on his Pip-Boy and got nothing more than static, his hand hovering over the pull switch to turn it all back on. A grin began to stretch across his lips again. 

“Let there be music.” he said and flipped it. 

He, Charon, and Dogmeat went back onto the elevator and listened as Three Dog howled and sang that the wasteland could hear him again. Damian elbowed Charon's firm arm when the DJ said that the kid was to thank for bringing his voice back to the people. He ranted on about the Good Fight for a moment before playing music as soon as the boys stepped off to the ground floor. 

Damian felt his head spin when he looked up, taking in just how high he was when he was sitting up there in that opening. The dish he replaced so high up that it was barely visible through th e fog that was beginning to descend upon them. Charon wasn't going to let him fall though, he proved when he snapped to catch him as soon as he lost his balance. 

The Brotherhood guards nodded at the boys as they passed, Damian stealing a glance at the Gatling laser again. The owner noticed his interest and revved it, a grin spreading wide across the vaultie's face. 

He doesn't know what the hell he was thinking earlier, that thing was so damn cool. 

* * *

Damian was surprised just how close he and Charon had become over the course of three short weeks. Or at least, it had felt that way to him. Charon was protective and Damian was p retty convinced that that had gone further than just the honor of upholding an end of a contact. 

Charon was starting to open up more, speaking more words than just one or two per sentence, high fiving Damian after a victory – be they big or small – when he  used  to just keep walking past him, slightly scoffing at the lame jokes Damian told when he used to just stare blankly at him.

Right now, Charon, him, and Dogmeat were sitting around a campfire, their butts on top of their respective sleeping bags as they watched the flames dance and consume the wood used to feed it.  They were passing a bottle of whiskey between each other, taking a swig or two before passing it back while Dogmeat was lapping up a bowl of purified water. Charon had asked Damian if it bothered him, sharing something with a ghoul. Damian just s norted and responded with “Why would it?” and nothing more was said on the subject. 

Damian asked several times before if Charon  remembered his life before he became a ghoul and the question was always met with silence. But tonight, it was met with an unexpected answer of “No.” It sounded solemn, too, and Damian suddenly felt guilty for asking so much. 

“What about you?” Charon asked, taking the boy off guard and the look he gave the ghoul made it obvious to him. “ What was life like in a vault?” 

Maybe Charon had been in a vault once, but he couldn't remember anything past working for Azrukhal. So even if he had at one point, he certainly doesn't remember it.  And r eminding himself of that horrible, manipulative piece of shit again made him want to shoot something. But instead he looked at Damian when he laughed and handed the ghoul the whiskey bottle. 

“It was, uh, peaceful. At least it seems like it was compared to the lives I've seen lived out here.” he began, Charon listening intently. “I was part of gang in there, and it seems so silly now because there are groups out here that were doing the kinda shit we did at sixteen when  _they_ were three.” 

“But I enjoyed my time with the Snakes,” Damian said after a swig. “Even if the leader and I butt heads a lot.” 

Charon noticed that the reminiscent smile that was on the boy's face had faded into something unreadable. He took another swig, this one being quite large before handing it back to the ghoul. Was he trying to forget something? 

The vaultie just kept his eyes to the fire in front of him, the orange light illuminating the finer details of his face. All the little scars that ran below his left eye and over his left eyebrow, the hair not having grown back yet – and probably never will – and the larger one that sat on the right side of his jaw and flicked upwards. 

His sharp cheek bones that seemed like it could cut someone's hand if they had slapped him, and the tight and strong jawline that was almost hidden in the kid's facial stubble. Charon also noticed just how thin Damian's face was compared to when he first met him and remembered that neither of them had eaten in days. 

Charon could go on much longer without food than humans could, but Damian didn't have that luxury and the ghoul heard the boy's stomach growl over the crackling of the fire. 

“Who was the leader?” Charon asked after finishing the whiskey. 

“This... guy. His name was, or  _is_ , Butch DeLoria.”  Damian started again, fiddling with a bobby pin between his fingers.  H e sounded nervous, almost like he didn't want to talk about this person. “He was kinda like the childhood bully you have when you're like, ten.” 

Charon never had a childhood bully. Or, not that he could remember anyway. He just nodded and agreed for the sake of empathy. 

“Well, he was definitely mine. And every other ten and lower year old in the vault.” 

“How did you join his gang, then?” 

“I was friends with two of the members, Paul and Wally Mack. I was in a bad mood one day when I was about, fifteen maybe? And Butch was being a dick, bothering me, calling me names and whatnot. Stuff I was used to, really.” He tipped the bottle of whiskey over his mouth, disappointed when nothing came from it. He tossed the bottle behind him, listening for the clink against the dirt before continuing. 

“But then,” Damian paused again and  laughed , his expression reading that he was suddenly annoyed. “Then he had to go and insult my dad. Some shit about how he wouldn't have such a stick up his ass if just 'got laid'. Then sayin' no broad's good enough for him because they weren't my mom.” The vaultie took a second to breathe. To calm himself down. 

“As soon as he brought my mom into it, I flew off the fuckin' handle, Charon. I beat the hell out of him. Broke his nose, made it bleed, you know.” He stopped again and looked at Charon, who was completely focused on the words the boy was saying. He was barely even blinking. 

Charon knew nothing of Damain's parents, only the odd thing here and there that he learned just by the kid talking about them idly. But that was only of his father, never of his mother. Charon assumed that she had been dead a long time, it wasn't hard to figure that out. 

“But after that?” Damian started again. “After I finally stood up to Butch, Wally, Paul, and a few others wanted me in the gang. Butch couldn't refuse then, he was outnumbered.” 

“And you joined?” Charon couldn't understand why, after everything its leader did to him – he's assuming horrible things based on the fact that Butch was a bully – that he'd so readily join the group that's caused him hell. He had friends, sure, but that wouldn't have been a good enough reason for Charon had he been in the boy's shoes. 

“Hell yeah I joined!” Damian perked up, pride in his voice. “I had been excluded from their club when they made it, and every time I tried to talk to Paul or Wally, Butch would come in and drag 'em away because I wasn't one of them. So,” Damian had a Nuka-Cola now, taking a swig before offering the bottle to Charon. The ghoul declined. Damian shrugged and took another swig. 

“So,” he repeated. “If I joined the Snakes, I'd be able to speak to my friends without them being dragged away from me. Amata didn't agree with my choice, dad didn't either, but it wasn't all bad. I still stayed out of trouble. Didn't do the things they did.” 

So he only joined to... talk to his friends? Not to bully others, deface the property of others or disrespect the rules set in place like most gang members – kids, anyway – did. He just wanted to see his friends. 

Maybe he wasn't as tough as he led on. 

“Butch hated it. Hated that he couldn't step in and tell me to piss off, because even if he did, Paul and Wally would just follow me.” 

Charon scoffed at the immaturity of a teenaged boy. 

“But...” Damian's voice was suddenly lower now, as if he remembered something that saddened him. He idly pet Dogmeat's head – who was laying it on his master's lap, sleeping – and Charon looked at him again. The kid just kept staring at the fire, which was dying down considerably now with nothing to keep it going. 

“He was a different person at night, when we both snuck around the vault after curfew. He did it to get away from his horrible mother, I did it because I was bored and couldn't sleep.” 

Another reminiscent smile crossed his lips, but this one was much smaller. More unsure and hidden. 

“We used to cause so much trouble for the guards on night patrol. Movin' shit, throwing coins, whistling around corners, that sort of stuff. Used to think it was so badass when I lived down there, but after what I've seen up here?” Damian paused, the smile was gone. “It's just stupid now.” 

Dogmeat had moved by now and was curled up next to his owner, Damian having brought his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, resting his chin on his forearm. 

“But I miss being stupid. I miss the vault, I miss not knowing what horrors were really out here.” He buried his face further into his crossed arms. “I miss my dad...” 

Charon barely heard the last bit, but he heard it. For the past few weeks he's been traveling with this kid, he's almost forgotten what he was actually looking for, or why he was even out  _here_ to begin with. 

The ghoul had seen Damian take down Super Mutants thrice his size, barter with the most stubborn merchants for lower prices and  _win_ , single-handedly pry a fusion battery out of a hostile Protectron's back, and mercilessly mow down Raiders without a second thought. 

He helped those who asked him and gave  them what he could, he stood up for a woman being harassed at a bar they went to in the middle of goddamn nowhere – gaining a punch in the jaw in the process, but Charon quickly laid the attacker out – and knew more about guns than a fucking gun dealer, whose  _job_ it was to know about the product he was selling. 

He's solved more problems than caused them, healed more people than hurt, and wasn't afraid to stand up for himself if he felt threatened, even if his harasser was bigger and stronger than he was. 

But besides all of that, Charon finally realized who Damian really was, what he was really feeling. 

He was just a scared little kid. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you figure out the theme yet ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


End file.
